


Maybe I'm Amazed

by 221Btls



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: All chapters stand alone, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-28
Updated: 2014-02-02
Packaged: 2018-01-02 21:58:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1062106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221Btls/pseuds/221Btls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first kiss is always the most memorable.  </p><p>Each chapter stands alone, telling a different story of how John and Sherlock kissed for the very first time</p><p>Maybe I'm Amazed is off of Paul McCartney's album McCartney.  My favorite solo Paul song, and and absolutely the ultimate live in concert song.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. No More Lonely nights

**Author's Note:**

> John and Sherlock kiss for the first time in the most traditional of circumstances...under the mistletoe.  
> A gift for iseult1124

John was the first to notice it.

He and Sherlock had just come back to the flat after a long night of tracking down a burglar who had been preying on empty houses.  Houses advertising their Christmas bounty with brightly lit trees in their windows and fresh, untrodden snow on their doorsteps.

"They might as well have hanged signs outside their windows saying 'No one's home, please come in.  Please, please Mr. Burglar steal our presents," Sherlock mocked, having little pity for the children that would now be waking up the next morning with nothing under the tree for them but dried pine needles. "When will people learn that there are those that believe in the spirit of _taking_?"

This was their second Christmas at 221b and John had become more than aware the year before that Sherlock held little affection for the holiday that most considered the highlight of the year. He himself was quite fond of the holiday. It meant cozy nights by the fireplace, eggnog, and gatherings with friends. Last year he had hosted their party himself, knowing that it would be near impossible to get Sherlock out of the house unless there was a murder. And for some reason the criminals of London had refused to conspire to give Sherlock his very own gift of a bloody corpse.

Taking off his jacket and hanging it by the door, John wiped the last of the slush off his shoes and replacing them with slippers, headed to the kitchen to turn on the kettle; after the night they'd had he deserved a warm cuppa. 

And that’s when he saw it.  Hanging from the doorway to the kitchen.

Mistletoe. 

He looked at it, confused. Now how had _that_ gotten there? _He_ had't hung it.  He didn't even know where to buy the damn stuff, though he did recall he’d seen it some time, at some store, wrapped in cellophane.  And it hadn't been there when they left the flat, of that he was sure.

He took a quick glance at Sherlock who was heading to his bedroom to change out of his wet trousers, having gotten them wet while taking down the 'Santa' that had been unloading presents _into_ sacks instead of out of them. Had Sherlock put the mistletoe there? What kind of experiment could he be conducting? John found this puzzling. Sherlock was not remotely interested in botany.  Perhaps he was testing its relative potency as a chemical agent depending on the length of time it hung there or maybe he wanted to see what reaction it might cause when they had Greg and Molly over the next evening.  John sniggered at his own cleverness, meanwhile knowing his first thought was far more likely than the latter.

He quickly forgot about the innocuous plant life as he busied himself making his tea and taking the morning paper, now almost 24 hours old, with him to his chair to sit and relax before his body would finally allow him to sleep after the night's lively activities.

* * *

 

Tedious. That was what the night had been. Sherlock couldn't quite say he detested the revered holiday, but he didn't see why people got themselves all out of sorts in their frenzy to hang lights, buy presents, and air kiss each other on the cheek in their once-a-year attempts to pretend all was right with the world.  Though he had never said, not even thought, the words 'bah humbug', that was  clearly Sherlock's attitude toward the overinflated holiday. 

Finished changing out of his wet clothing and replacing them with his blue silk pyjamas and robe, he padded barefooted into the kitchen to see how his experiment was coming. Before they were called by Scotland Yard to help track down 'Santa', also known as Joseph Carimont, he had set a severed thumb  in a solution of chlorine and  acetone, the suspected cause of death in a murder in West London a week ago.

Seeing something hanging from the door way, he reached up to touch the small sprig of leaves, noticing that nestled in between them were what appeared to be little white berries. And it had a bow. Curious. He unhooked it, and holding it in his hand, examined it.  He noted the rounded green leaves paired together on the woody stems, searching his mind for what little knowledge he had of plant life.  What was this?

He needed more data.

* * *

 

As John sat reading the paper, he couldn’t help but let his mind wander back to the mistletoe.  He knew his first thought had been that Sherlock had put it there for an experiment, but…he knew that Sherlock was even more ignorant of, and less interested in, non-human living organisms than he was of astronomy.  And as far as he knew, there was no current case that would call for the examination of the oxygenation of mistletoe, or its hydro genic properties, or whatever unimaginable thing Sherlock might want to discover about a plant that makes an appearance only once a year. 

Turning back to take a look behind him, he was just in time to see Sherlock lifting the sprig to his mouth.

Faster than any small man has the right to move, John sprung out of his chair.  Throwing the paper down, unconcerned as it flapped chaotically to the floor, he rushed over to where Sherlock stood just about to nip at one of the small succulent leaves.

“Sherlock!  No!  What _are_  you, a three year old?!” John yelled in his haste to stop the detective.  “You _don’t_  have to put everything in your mouth, you stupid git!”, grabbing Sherlock’s wrist and yanking it down from his mouth. 

“That’s a poisonous plant and it will give you stomach cramps.  It’s _mistletoe,_ ” John said, his breath coming in waves from his anger.  And his fear; it scared him when Sherlock did such reckless things.

Standing there catching his breath, still holding onto Sherlock’s wrist, John looked at Sherlock.  Looked at him looking at him.  Felt his racing pulse, noticing that the consulting detective, too, had become slightly breathless.  Why that was he didn’t really know. 

Sherlock was perplexed.  Why in the world would John care what he put in his mouth?

Cocking his head, he asked John, “What is mistletoe?  And why is it hanging in our flat? Is it some kind of vampire thing?  I know that is a popular topic these days,” barely refraining from sniffing in disgust at such a ridiculous notion as vampires.

“ _Really?”_ John was flabbergasted that Sherlock couldn’t know what mistletoe was.  It amazed him sometimes the gaps of knowledge Sherlock had for the ordinary things in life.  In so many things he was absolutely brilliant, and in some things, well, he was as ignorant as they come.

John was surprised at his reluctance to release Sherlock’s wrist, telling him, “Put it back up there and I’ll show you what mistletoe is for. 

“Why would I have to put it up there for you to show me what it is?” Sherlock said as he put the mistletoe in front of John’s face.  How could it not be more obvious that it would be much easier for John to see it at eyelevel than up above his head?

John just shook his head fondly and repeated himself, “Just put it up there,” nodding toward the hook above them.

Like the Abominable Snowman, tall enough to reach where the elves could not, Sherlock reached above them with ease and hung the mistletoe back where he had found it. 

Looking back at John expectantly, he asked, “Now what?” entirely unsure of what was to come next.  Entirely unsure why John was looking at him with such intensity.  What was going on in that funny little brain? He wondered.

John hesitated.  But only for a moment.  He had one of those rare moments where he didn’t think it through; he didn’t second guess himself or question why.  He just did it.  Wrapping his hand around the nape of Sherlock’s neck, he brought the chiseled face down as he lifted his own up.  To put his lips on Sherlock’s. 

As his lips made contact and moved against the mouth that so rarely was anything but abrasive, he was genuinely surprised at how soft it was.  How accepting it was of this presumably alien act.  Mid-kiss, he couldn’t help but sigh, sending a warm puff of air into Sherlock’s mouth, hearing and feeling an echoing sigh.  Opening his eyes he saw that Sherlock’s were closed, trusting John.  Wanting more. 

John obliged.  

After many minutes, many minutes of wonder at this miracle of kissing… _Sherlock Holmes,_ John pulled back.  And just inches away from the face that he realized he cared about so much, he smiled and said, “ _That_ is what mistletoe is for.”

“Oh”  was all the wordiest person John knew had to say. 

“Yes. ‘Oh’.”  John very much agreed.

John’s brow furrowed.  “If you didn’t put it there, then who did?” he puzzled.

Looking at each other, at the same exact time it came to them.  “Mrs. Hudson!” they cried in unison.

In the flat below them the old woman smiled and continued crocheting. 

Soon _she_ would have ‘married ones’.

Just like Mrs. Turner.


	2. Lovers in a Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Was their first kiss a dream or reality?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was inspired by the beauty that is Sherlock as acted by Benedict Cumberbatch and the painting Pygmalion and Galatea by Jean-Léon Gérôme

Walking into the Sculpture Gallery, John was overwhelmed by the plethora of sculptures.  Most museums he had ever visited spaced their pieces well away  each other in order to give each piece the opportunity to be viewed and experienced individually, as if they each had lives of their own.  But not at Liverpool’s Walker Gallery. 

The Sculpture Gallery was almost akin to a storage room, filled wall to wall, floor to ceiling with sculptures and figures and mountings.  John found the cluttered feel of it made the room all the more interesting.  Comparing the usual museum with this one it was not unlike comparing a single flower with a bouquet.  Each had its own appeal.  Each its own beauty.

Though he was at the museum at Sherlock’s request to follow up on the stolen Hockney they had been investigating, he allowed himself time to admire the works in the room.  He had always loved sculpture…Rodin, Degas, Michelangelo.   He held a special love for marble.  Though stone, there was sensuality to it when sculpted by the right artist.  With great skill and care, the stone could be brought to life, could be given a softness that made it look like it could almost breathe.

Moving through the softly lit room, John viewed piece after piece, busts and animals and full-bodied humans, absorbing their beauty.  He approached a particularly striking statue, standing six feet tall, that melded into the sturdy marble pedestal below it.  John appraised it with a keen eye; it had obviously been created by a true master, not unlike David by Michelangelo.  He admired the long, lean lines, the firm muscles of the nude that had they been flesh-colored, he would have not been at all surprised had they been alive. 

John glanced around to see if anyone was watching.  He knew he shouldn’t, but he felt compelled to touch the statue; he couldn’t keep himself from reaching out and smoothing his fingers along the rich stone, feeling his fingers practically tingle with anticipation. His eyes traveled up the rest of the form, taking in the soft, yet firm looking belly, the grace of the long, slender fingers that begged to be to be entwined with a lover’s, the strong sweep of the shoulders.  His eyes lingered on the elegant neck before moving up to reach the face.  The face that caused him to audibly gasp.  The face of Sherlock.  So remarkable was the similarity, had John not known better, he might have thought that his _was_  the face the artist had used as a model.  The prominent cheekbones, the full lips (were those _really_  marble?  They couldn’t possibly be, they looked too, too soft), on the forehead, wavy fringe that seemed to have a mind of its own.

He felt almost lightheaded, so surreal it was to be looking at his flatmate immortalized in marble.  It couldn’t be him; Sherlock could never have sat still long enough to pose for a work of art that obviously had to have taken many, many an hour to complete. 

Even after all the time he had lived with Sherlock, John realized he had never seen him unclothed.  But looking at the pale figure, examining the lean, muscularity of it, he knew that were he ever to see Sherlock without clothing, this was what he would look like.  The rounded bum underneath his pants would surely be as prominent as this one.  The arms that sat under rolled-up sleeves would surely be as taut as these.  The male member…well, he just wasn’t going to think about that one.

Whether by accident or by design, this _was_ Sherlock.  John shook his head in astonishment.

His fingers still on the statue, his chest heaved slightly as he realized he was touching the embodiment of Sherlock.  And it felt…good.  Too caught up in the ethereal quality of the statue to feel embarrassment, John closed his eyes and allowed his fingers to continue exploring the marble.  He knew that at times he had realized Sherlock was beautiful, but he would never have thought that to be this close, without self-consciousness, to touch him without reserve, would be so intoxicating.  He settled his palm on the thigh, the thigh that felt almost alive under his skin.   Sherlock. 

Fuck, it just wasn’t right to touch this and imagine it was his flatmate, but he found he couldn’t help himself. His hand moved up the smooth hip, past the slim waist to the torso that was… _warm_?  How could it be warm?   But still he didn’t open his eyes, enjoying the sensation too, too much to let allow it to flee so soon.  He knew this could happen only once in a lifetime and whether right or wrong, strange or not, he was going to enjoy the opportunity.  His mind becoming one with the figure, he thought he felt movement.  Confused because he knew it there couldn’t have been any, this was stone.  Immobile, lifeless stone.

As he stood there, motionless, _being,_ John heard his name.  His name said in that same obscenely rich tone he heard every day at home.  The voice of Sherlock.  He heard it again, this time, breathed softly into his ear.  John’s eyes flew open and he froze.  Not with fear, but with wonder.  For right next to his own face was the _very_ real, very alive one of Sherlock.  But how….?  Taking a quick glance, he saw that the upper half of the statue had materialized into flesh and blood, the lower half still marble.  Marble that had somehow come to life.  Marble and flesh and blood that leaned down to John, kissing the lips that had parted in surprise.  Any other questions, any other exclamations, were quieted by the lush lips that covered his and claimed them as their own. 

Never in his life had he felt such headiness.  He felt dizzy, as if he was floating outside of his own body, so rapturous was the kiss that Sherlock gave him.  He could barely breathe, but he didn’t care.  Were he to die at that very moment, he knew there was no other way he would rather leave this earth.

Gentle fingers brushed his cheek. 

“ _John_ ” he heard once more, this time breathed softly onto his lips. 

He felt his knees grow weak.  Jesus fucking Christ, he thought.  This couldn’t possibly be real, knowing that the wonder and unreality came not from marble coming to life, but from being kissed.  Being kissed, and well, by his flatmate. Sherlock Holmes.

Bringing his hands up, one to the beautiful face that was giving him life and the other to wind itself in the sensual mass of curls, John gave all of himself. 

And received everything in return.     


	3. Baby's in Black

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At some point in time, we all wear a mask,

“Oh, you are a bad man,” John murmured into his mobile as he viewed the picture that had just popped up on it, courtesy of Sherlock. 

“What?  You don’t like it?  I thought you were an… arse man?”  Sherlock said from the other end of the line, uncomfortable with the vulgar term as he expressed his dismay that John seemed to not like the photo. 

“Uhm. Well, yes, as a matter of fact I am.  And I can’t say that this one is at all difficult to look at.”  Zooming into the picture for a better view, John thought he’d never seen a finer arse.  Full, round, and taut, black fabric sensually draped over it in invitation, making it practically beg to be touched.  Just his cup of tea. 

John wondered where Sherlock had gotten the picture.  He knew it couldn’t be that the detective snapped the photo himself, he couldn’t imagine Sherlock knowing what might constitute an attractive bum.

No, it didn’t bother John that Sherlock sent the picture.  What annoyed him was what Sherlock wanted him to do- attend Scotland Yard’s Annual Vicars and Tarts Orphan’s Ball.  Even though the event was for a worthy cause, the doctor was not one to dress in costume.  Certainly not in a vicar’s outfit wearing one of those ridiculous headpieces. 

“Are you sure I need to go?  Isn’t there some other way to get the information you need from her?”  If he had to, John would plead to get out of going.  A little bribery wouldn’t be out of the question either.  Fine arse or no fine arse, he didn’t want to go.

Sherlock asserted that yes, indeed John needed to go.  “Tracy Williams is a very private individual and it’s almost impossible to catch her in public.  Arranging to meet her in private is doubly so.  I need you to do this, John.  You know I am unable go, one of us has to get up to Cornwall and you are the one who has a way with the women…or so you tell me.  You are the obvious one to try to get sensitive information out of her. ” 

“Ha!  Tell that to Sarah.  Tell that to Janine.”  It stung to think of how deplorable his track record had been of late.  He was lucky if he could get a second date these days.

“You’ll do as well with Tracy,” Sherlock said, missing the sarcasm.  “You don’t have to get her into bed, you just have to use your, well, charms on her.  She attends the event every year.  She’s the only one that wears a mask so she’ll be easy to spot.”

“If she’s there every year, then why haven’t I ever seen her before?  I’d remember seeing someone wearing a mask.”  Not to mention…

“I don’t know John, maybe you were snogging the junior detective in the coat closet.” Sherlock said acerbically; he was getting impatient.  Did it really have to be so difficult?  It’s not like John had anything better to do on New Year’s Eve.  He didn’t currently have a girlfriend and one would think John would be happy to spend some time with an attractive woman.

“Jesus, leave it, Sherlock.  Alright, I’ll go.  But you owe me,” he warned.

“When do you think you’ll be getting back from Cornwall?”  Not that John would admit he missed Sherlock on the odd occasion he went away on his own, but the flat felt empty without his presence.  As aggravating as Sherlock could sometimes be, John was never bored when they were both at home.

“I should be back in a couple of days.  Text me to let me know what information you get from Tracy.”  Sherlock didn’t bother with saying goodbye, abruptly disconnecting the call with the assumption John would do as asked without any more questions.  

Looking at his watch, John realized he was short on time.  It was New Year’s Eve morning, he’d be lucky to find a vicars costume at this late date. 

Hurrying to get his jacket, he ran out of the flat, slamming the door behind him in his haste.

* * *

 

This was the 3rd year John would be going to the Ball. 

The first year he had been roped into going, as he was this one, it was also in pursuit of a case. It seemed the rich and powerful were not immune to the allure of accumulating more wealth the good old-fashioned way, by stealing it.  He had attended with Sherlock and since the detective had refused to dress in the traditional costume, out of solidarity John refused to wear one as well.  Well, he _said_ it was out of solidarity.

The second year he went with Lestrade who, having separated from his wife a month earlier, clearly did not want to go alone.  He and John had stopped by the pub before going to the ball and, losing track of time and the number of ales they imbibed, wound up singing Baby’s in Black, off-key, on the stage at the ball in front of hundreds of people while the orchestra was taking a break.  The Superintendent glared at them from the side of the room, Not Amused.  Sherlock came to the rescue of everyone by dragging John off the stage.  He took him home and put him to bed, grumbling as he tugged the costume off of uncooperative, uncoordinated limbs.  John was still humming as he drifted off into a drunken sleep, a serenade that Sherlock found oddly charming.

This year, John hoped no one remembered last year’s fiasco, but he wasn’t counting on it.  He would get to the ball just before midnight, hoping Tracy would have had one too many glasses of champagne, making his subversive interrogation of her quick and painless. 

Entering Royal Albert Hall, he checked his jacket at the coatroom and wound his way through the crowd, plucking a pint of ale from the tray of one of the waiters. 

John looked for Tracy.  He hadn’t a clue what she looked like, but he knew if he saw either that enchanting arse or a masked face, then it was game on.  Simple. 

Moments before the stroke of midnight he was jostled from behind and as he turned to apologize, his eyes were drawn to a face masked in black.  Tracy.  Tall one, this, he thought.  “Miss Williams,” he said loudly over the music and the sound of the crowd starting to count down the new year. 

“Ten, nine, eight…” the partygoers yelled in unison. 

And just as they started to shout “Happy New Year!”, Tracy, with her mask still firmly in place, leaned down and pressed her lips to John’s. 

He figured he must be a little lightheaded from drinking the ale on an empty stomach. Usually a New Year’s kiss was but a brief peck, especially when between two people who had never met.  But he found he couldn’t tear his mouth from hers.  It was soft and assured and as she tucked her tongue into his mouth, seeking out his own willing tongue, all thoughts of questioning her vanished from his brain.  Reflexively he went to put his hands on her waist to bring her closer, to envelope himself more fully in the hold she had on him, but she put her hand on his chest, keeping him at a distance.  The move was enough of a tease that it only made him want her all the more, made him kiss her that more urgently, made his heart beat just that much faster.

Christ, where in the hell was this coming from?  He hadn’t even had the opportunity to look at her properly and yet there was nothing he wanted more than to shag her.  Immediately.  He didn’t recall _ever_ having such a strong reaction to a woman, not this quickly.

His head fuzzy from lack of air, he pulled back to catch his breath and as he did so he heard a soft voice in his ear say “Happy New Year, John”.  What the fuck?!   She was a bloke!  And just how in the hell did she know his name?

As he was able, for the first time, to look into her eyes, he knew he would recognize those piercing blues anywhere. 

Sherlock.

“Sher… what the fuck are you doing here? And what the f..”

“Shhh, keep your voice down.”

“Don’t ‘shhh’ me!  Like anyone could hear me above this din.”

Sherlock kept his mouth down by John’s ear, the warm breath tickling it, causing him to shudder.  “I’ll explain in a moment,” the rich voice soothed.

Sherlock flattened his palm on John’s back and, mask still in place, led his confused flatmate to the hallway outside the noisy room.  Standing in front of John, facing away from a couple perusing the photos on the wall nearby, Sherlock’s mask came off. 

“Turn around,” John demanded.

“What?”  Sherlock’s forehead wrinkled at the unexpected request.

“Turn. Around.”  John wasn’t taking ‘no’ for an answer.

Sherlock turned his back to John, straining his head around to see what John was up to.

His mouth starting to gape, John pointed down at the bounteous arse before him.  “That was _your_ arse in the picture, you….  Bollocks.” He shook his head in well, he just didn’t know what.  All he knew was he was flabbergasted.  Flabbergasted that he had kissed Sherlock.  That he had enjoyed it. Hell, he had more than enjoyed it, it was the best kiss he had ever had.    He moistened his lips, momentarily lost in the memory of Sherlock’s lips on his.

Sherlock turned back around to face John.

“Why Sherlock?  Just..why?  And why are you in a dress?  I didn’t know you like that, not that it’s not fine.  It’s all fine.”

“No John, I don’t wear dresses.  I did it because, well, I didn’t know if you would accept me any other way.  I didn’t know if you would want to kiss me as _me.”_

“Why didn’t you just ask, then?  You didn’t have to go to this elaborate set up.’’  John eyed Sherlock suspiciously.  “There is no Tracy Williams, is there.  And _obviously_ you didn’t go to Cornwall.”

John, feeling dazed, was having trouble absorbing all that had happened in the last few minutes.

“No, there’s no Tracy Williams and I didn’t go to Cornwall.  Obviously.”

Sherlock continued.  “So you’re telling me that if, say, one day you’re lying about watching telly and I came over and asked you to kiss me, you would have?  You’d have just said ‘Sure, Sherlock!  Have a good go at it’.” Sherlock looked at John expectantly, daring John to contradict him.

Flustered, John’s mouth opened and closed as he thought about what he was going to say.  He couldn’t deny the truth, he _would_ have said ‘no’.

“You’re right, I would have thought you’d gone bonkers.”

“Right.  So I took a less direct approach and here we are.  Your pupils are dilated, your face is flushed, and I daresay you greatly enjoyed it.”

“That I did.  God help me, I did.”  John couldn’t help but chuckle.  Rarely was Sherlock wrong, even in the most absurd circumstances.  Even in _this_ circumstance and the more he thought about it the less absurd it seemed.

For the first time Sherlock looked unsure of himself.  “I’d, I’d like to kiss you again if I may.”  The words coming from his mouth were both a statement and a question.

John was touched by the uncertainty he saw on Sherlock’s face; it humbled him that he could have such an effect on his normally (over)confident flatmate.  It made him aware as he never had been before that Sherlock was a flesh and blood human being just like the rest of them, in need of love and companionship. 

Comfortable companionship they already had in spades.  Love?

With a hint of uncharacteristic bashfulness, John finally answered. “I wouldn’t mind awfully if you had a good go at it.  Please, though, do tell me we can get out of these buggering awful outfits first!”

Sherlock looked intently at John, making sure that the sincerity on John’s face matched the words he heard.  Satisfied that it did, he quirked that most Sherlockian of grins.  The year was just starting and he already knew it would be the best yet.

John swept his hand in front of himself and gave a half bow. “After you m’lady,” an impish grin lighting up his face. 

As Sherlock walked in front him on the way to get their coats, John couldn’t resist the urge.  The slight swish under that dress was just too damn tempting.  He reached out and full-palmed that delectable arse, giving it a good squeeze. 

Stopping short, Sherlock whirled around and, catching John’s face in his hands with a tenderness that the smaller man would never have imagined Sherlock possessed, kissed him. Kissed him with a passion that made John know, without a doubt, he would need many, many more from this man. 

* * *

 

John never found out who took the picture of Sherlock, but he kept it on the lockscreen of his mobile as a reminder of the most momentous kiss he had ever known.  Of his first kiss with the person that would, incredulously, become the love of his life.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As many countless times as I have listened to all Beatles songs, I still discover something new, find a new appreciation in a beloved chestnut. Baby's in Black has the most amazing harmonies and Paul's high voice, just...hnghh.


	4. You've Got to Hide Your Love Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their first kiss leads to the thrills of hidden sexual adventures. And, of course...love.

"Sherlock! What _are_ you doing?!"  

John stood backed against the counter, the cold porcelain of the sink pressed against his bum going unnoticed.  Something else far more intriguing was occupying his attention.  
  
"John, I know you are not the most luminous of people, but even you should know what I'm doing," Sherlock huskily reprimanded.  
  
Having already gotten John unbuttoned, Sherlock stripped him of his jeans and pants in one swift motion, letting the clothing fall to a pile at his feet.  Wrapping those long (gloriously long, fucking gorgeous) fingers around John's already erect cock, he stroked the silky shaft that was thick with arousal.  He stared into John’s eyes as he pumped him.  Watched John’s breathing grow ever more rapid and shallow.  Watched as the smaller man’s eyes closed, his head tipping back, mouth open.   
  
Sherlock crouched down to his knees and took John into his mouth, reaching his hands around to grab rounded cheeks.  Kneeding, sucking, bobbing.  The occasional slurping sound sending itself up to John’s ears, causing him to shudder.   

‘Dear fucking God,’ John thought, when he _could_  think ,’I’m going to die right here in some stranger’s loo.’  
  
"Sherlock... stop" John groaned in one of his saner moments, the words his mouth spoke quite at odds with what the rest of his body was shouting (Take me!  Take me!).  Quickly, Sherlock stood back up and covered John’s mouth with his own to silence him, plying the thinner lips with his own plush ones.  Continuing to work John's shaft with a solid grip, he took his tongue into his mouth and sucked.  Hard. 

Groaning, John surrendered to his need. 

Not that it was necessary to do, for success was assured, he thrust into Sherlock's hold and wrapped both his hands on his lover's head, tangling his fingers in the soft silky curls, adding one more tactile sensation to the fire that threatened spontaneous combustion. Rocking his hips back and forth, harder, faster, he was embarrassed at how quickly he released himself into Sherlock's hand, released a cascade of come on it. Panting from exertion, John’s body went limp as he laid his head onto Sherlock's chest to recover.   
  
Sherlock voice vibrated in his ear "Better?"  
  
Looking up, John gave him a fuzzy smile, nodding, "Ohhh yeah. Let's clean up and get back; someone’s going to come in looking for us soon. "

Emerging from the loo, John and Sherlock rejoined Lestrade and his crew. Seeing Donovan staring at them, Sherlock gave her a withering glare as she obligingly looked away, a poorly disguised look of disgust on her face.   
  
John wasn't sure if Lestrade was ignorant of how long they were in the loo (it really wasn't _that_ long) or if he was genuinely engrossed in the body that lay on the bare floor before them, but he innocently asked "Come up with anything interesting in there?"  
  
Oh yes, Detective Inspector, we certainly did.  
  
They had gone into the loo to survey the contents of the medicine cabinet for clues to the victim’s medical history, but, as was not unusual these days, their mission took a rather, uh, entertaining turn.  John was not going to complain, after all, he’d had to endure the agony of watching Sherlock root around on the floor looking for soil samples, unable to think of anything but how delicious that bum looked in the tailored trousers, thrust up into the air.  Wondering how he was going to hide the bulge in his jeans. 

* * *

  
  
Sherlock and John had been partners in the business sense for some time.  A time during which, without either wanting to admit it, they had each found themselves captivated by the other~ John by Sherlock's piercing blue eyes, lustrous curls, and Oh-my-god-how-can-it-be-that-tight arse, and Sherlock by John's warm blue eyes, rakish grey/blonde hair, and decidedly soldierly strut. But with John an avowed heterosexual (I’m not gay!) and Sherlock a…who knows, there were certain barriers that needed to be broken down.

As with most things in their life together, their physical relationship began because of a case. It sounds kind of goofy, really, how it began, but then, real life is rarely suave. It's the glitches that make it interesting and memorable. 

"John!"  
  
John, disgruntled and obedient as ever, followed Sherlock's bellow into the sitting room. "What now? I've come in here the three times you've called in the last hour and all you do is pace and wave your hands about. This is the last time Sherlock. Last.  Time.  Either you tell me what you want or the next time you shout I'm going to ignore you.”  
  
Sherlock whipped his head toward him, eyes blazing with excitement. "John! I think I've got it! Come stand over here so I can demonstrate." He practically danced in glee at nearly solving the case.  
  
John was wary, but if he could help Sherlock solve the case (and more importantly, get him to leave him in peace!) then he was willing to help.  
  
He went over and stood by Sherlock, who proceeded to bend and contort him like a human Gumby. He had long gotten used to being Sherlock's personal guinea pig and for the most part trusted Sherlock wouldn't go far enough to permanently damage him, so he shut up and waited to see where it was going. Occasionally he had to huff and puff to get enough air, after all, he DOES have lungs that need a certain amount of expansion and contraction so he can actually....breathe.   
  
So there was Sherlock playing pretzel with John, who lost his balance, because, really, who bends that way and can remain upright?  Down went John. And Sherlock, who was practically attached to him as he played Mr. Puppet Man, fell down with him, sprawling over him like an octopus. Propping himself up on his elbow, Sherlock's bountiful lips were mere inches away from John's. Both of them panting and laughing, they met in the middle for their first kiss. Mouth upon mouth, exploring, tasting, reveling in the sensitive nerve endings that overloaded those small patches of skin. Gasps of air and whimpers of delight. 

This was the first visible, and audible, admission of their attraction to each other. 

* * *

  
  
They consummated their relationship in St Barts after they had finished examining a body found floating in the Thames. There could be no less romantic setting than hovering over a bloated body that had lost several fingers and toes to marine life. But for John and Sherlock, such scenes were part of their daily lives, nothing to get overly squeamish about, so when Sherlock started ogling John over the body and John reached over to kiss him, there was no turning back~ there was no greater affirmation of life than the presence of death. 

So when Sherlock pulled his lips away from John’s (dammit!), drew the sheet back over the corpse and quickly strode to the door, John was hot on his heels.  “Where’re we going, then?” John inquired.  He assumed Sherlock must have some hair-brained idea he was chasing after, but hadn’t a clue what it was.

“Follow me”, Sherlock almost barked.  Under John’s breath he muttered “Like I have to be told. Don’t I follow you _everywhere_?”  Sometimes it annoyed him that he let Sherlock lead him around like a dog without a leash, but more often than not it led to something unusual and exciting, so he didn’t let himself be too bothered.  Admittedly, life with Sherlock was rarely dull.

They swiftly made their way to the wing of the hospital that was being renovated, Sherlock finding a room at the far end away from the workers.  Walking into a room, Sherlock took John’s hand, and shutting the door after pulling him inside, pushed him up against it with a solid thud.  By no means a novice in these situations, John quickly sized things up and taking the cue from Sherlock’s intense stare, hastily began unbuttoning the detective’s coat.  Grabbing his scarf by both ends, he pulled Sherlock against him, pressed his hand firmly at the nape of his neck and pulled him down for a blazing kiss.  With trembling fingers, Sherlock rather clumsily finished taking his coat off, allowing it to fall to the floor in a heap. 

Groping at each other, they stumbled over to the bed, hungrily exploring each other’s mouths.  Pushing John down onto the bed, Sherlock half lay on him, nudging his knee between John’s accommodating legs.  John’s fingers pulling on Sherlock’s  hair.  Sherlock trailing his pillowy lips down John’s neck, giving a nip here and there. John firmly grabbing Sherlock’s arse, bringing their groins close enough together they could feel the heat beneath their clothing.  Breathing heavily, they paused.  They knew where this was leading, but needed to reassure themselves that this was a step they wouldn’t regret. 

...Oh to hell with it!  If it went wrong they would deal with it later. 

Like love starved teenagers they groped and tugged (Ow!  Watch it!) and wriggled until they were both free of the inconvenience of clothing from the waist down.    

Lying on his side, John tentatively reaching out his hand to smooth it across Sherlock’s flat abdomen, along his hipbone, along his….  Eyes closed he felt the velvety smoothness that was wet with pre-come.  He inwardly groaned.  He hadn’t thought his own dick could get any harder, yet here he was, feeling like he might fall off a precipice and Sherlock hadn’t even touched him yet.  Involuntarily he strained towards Sherlock, unwittingly inviting him to touch him.   
  
Sherlock was quite happy to accommodate him.  


* * *

 

  
It became a game to see how much they could get away with without anyone knowing. Closets, bathrooms, elevators, any space with a door they could hide behind became fair game. And since there are a _lot_ of doors in London, the boys kept themselves quite amused.  Public places weren't off limits as a rule, they just knew it took a little extra finesse to keep their private activities private.

Sitting on the settee in Buckingham Palace, John looked over at Sherlock, ridiculously wrapped in his bedsheet. Taking a pointed look at the where Sherlock’s crotch was hidden under a mound of crumpled sheet, John asked "Wearing any pants?" Sherlock's bored response "No-o-o,” should have made John laugh, but despite their location, or perhaps because of it, he found himself aroused by the risk. Reaching over with his left hand he slid it up Sherlock's leg to where his thighs met. Nope, no pants…but there _was_ an interesting situation, ahem, arising. And with only the 600 thread count sheet between his hand and the object of his desire, he wrapped that silky fabric around it and stroked, giving Sherlock an idea of what he'd like to be doing to him once they got home. Sherlock's agreeable cock gave John its rapt attention, becoming engorged at an alarming rate.  And when a particular individual who held a minor position in the government, walked into the room, John found he needed to share some of the ample sheet ~~to hide his hard on~~ in solidarity with Sherlock’s petulant rebellion.

* * *

 

It was very rare that anyone saw Sherlock or John without the company of the other and so, of course, the gossip flew. They lived together, they worked together, no one ever saw either with a date, so how could they _not_  be a couple? But with the men being the private individuals they were, they felt no need to acknowledge or deny the speculation they knew went on behind their backs and often to their faces. As ravenous as they were for each other, they still had no need to put their affection on public display. Heading to crime scenes, going out to dinner, everywhere they went they did their best to keep their hands off each other when in view of others, to keep their relationship hidden.

The only problem was they kept their true relationship hidden from the two people that counted the most.  Themselves. 

They had no problem acknowledging their lust, but where their hearts lay?  That was another matter.  It was all well and fine to act on their biological impulses, that was only natural wasn’t it?  But to make any declaration of affection or attachment was beyond their reach, despite the fact that each was, secretly, madly in love with the other.  Neither had ever known anyone as necessary to them.  Not necessary in the sense of a helpmate, someone who made the path of life smoother- that they did for each other.  But necessary in the sense that they were as essential to each other as the air they breathed, as necessary as the blood running through their veins.

* * *

In attendance at the wedding of one of John’s Army mates, Sherlock and John sat at their table, watching the crowd around them dance.  Sherlock’s shoe tapped in time with the lively music, the fingers of one hand dancing on his knee, his other hand holding John’s beneath the cloth covered table.  John’s free hand drummed the table top as his eyes followed the wedding guests, the longing he felt to join them badly concealed.

“Hi!”

A hand rested on John’s shoulder, a hand attached to a pretty young woman with long brunette hair.

“Hey, you look like you need to dance!  I’m Gricelda,” she said, her wide smile producing a charming set of dimples.

“What?!”  John couldn’t hear what she was saying above the music, so she leaned down to his upturned ear and repeated her invitation, her hair falling on his shoulder.

A smile crossed the doctor’s face, he really _did_  want to dance and he knew from experience Sherlock wouldn’t ~ The Unwritten Rule, you know.  Turning to Sherlock, his eyes asked for consent.  Sherlock raised his eyebrows, ‘whatever’,  they said, and looked away quickly as though something had suddenly had caught his attention. He let John’s hand go, feeling the loss as his fingers slid along John’s until they no longer touched. He watched as his lover rose from the table and put his arm lightly around the girl’s waist, leading her to the dance floor.

As the energetic song transitioned into a slow one, Sherlock’s attention narrowed on the couple as they swayed to the music, seemingly comfortable in each other’s arms.  Seeing John smile at him as they turned in a slow circle, Sherlock offered a forced smile, not at all pleased by the sight of his lover in the embrace of another.  Even if it was within a social construct that held no emotional attachment.  Even knowing it was far more acceptable for a man and woman to dance, not two men, and that he trusted John implicitly. 

He could feel the jealousy grow in him, a most unpleasant sensation. 

The detective sat watching, wondering why it was that John was out there dancing and he was sitting there. Alone.  Certainly not because he didn’t to like dance, for he did.  Oh, how he did. 

His elbows on the table, his forefingers rested on his lips.  When had he and John decided that they would not show affection in public?  He couldn’t recall one single conversation they had had on the subject, it had just…happened.  And what reason was there for it?  One _good_ reason?  Despite his vast personal resources, he was at a loss to think of even one.  The only reasonable explanation would be if he cared what people thought.  Or if John cared.   He knew neither of these possibilities to be true.

This was Ridiculous.

Sherlock stood from the table and walked out to where John and the girl were dancing, standing close enough to them that when John circled one more time he bumped into his immobile figure.

“Wha..?”  John was surprised that the detective now stared down at him.

“Excuse me,” Sherlock said to the young woman as she glared at him, obviously wondering what this man was about as he interrupted their dance.

“He’s mine,” Sherlock said simply and without malice, lifting her arm off John’s shoulder as if it was an especially virulent form of bacteria.

She couldn’t really hear what the tall fellow was saying, but watching the possessive way he moved between her and her dance partner and seeing the slow smile growing on John’s face, she knew that it was time for her to find another dance partner.

John's smile filled his face, his eyes resting lovingly on the man who was taking him into his arms to finish the song.  Laying his head on Sherlock’s shoulder, and Sherlock molding himself to John, they could feel their hearts synchronizing to the slow steady beat of the music. 

Sherlock dipped his head low to where John could hear him and said, “no more hiding, I want everyone to know you’re mine.”  He stopped dancing and locked eyes with  John.  “ _Mine_ ,” he emphasized as he cupped John’s face gently in his hands and kissed him with a passion that no one around them would ever misinterpret as anything other than one man being head over heels in love with the other.

John’s hands clung to him.  His lips clung to him, mindless of any onlookers, not caring one whit who could see.    

Sherlock took John’s hand and pulled him along behind him as he left the dance floor.

“Where’re we going, then?”  John asked, not surprised that Sherlock was off on another adventure.  Not surprised that it would take precedence over kisses that should be knocking his socks off.  Disappointed, yes.  Surprised, no.

But he should know by now to have more faith in his mercurial lover, after all they’d been together a lifetime now.  Well, at least the part of their lives that mattered. 

Sherlock quirked a smile, his eyes shining with the knowledge he no longer felt the need to hide his love for John. 

“Where are we going?”  Sherlock repeated, squeezing John’s hand, letting go only long enough to discreetly trail his fingers up the long hardness along a certain ex-soldier’s crotch .  “I do believe the cloak room is unoccupied…”

No, John Watson was never bored.

And perhaps even more amazingly, neither was Sherlock Holmes.


	5. I've Got A Feeling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Purple pants, a blindfold, and handcuffs caused an epiphany that changed both their lives.

Where the hell was Sherlock?  John had texted every half hour for the last four hours with no response from his flatmate.

He paced the floor of 221b, unable to sit still. 

He’d gotten home earlier than usual from the clinic. It was a slow day without the customary plethora of trifling, self-absorbed complaints that were more fancy than reality, and when offered the chance to go home, he didn’t think twice.  Far too many days had passed since he had been able to join Sherlock on a case and he was going through withdrawal.  Adrenaline rush withdrawal.

_Sherlock!  For the last time WHERE ARE YOU?_

His head knew the detective was more than capable of taking care of himself, but still he couldn’t quell the anxiety settling deep in his belly. 

_This isn’t funny, you stupid git.  Answer me. NOW._

Silence.

If he was honest with himself, he was more angry than fearful, really.  Sherlock never considered the possibility that someone might actually be concerned about him.

He could hear Sherlock’s voice in his head~ “As much as you’d like to think of yourself as essential, John, you would be delusional to think your presence is necessary.  I am well-trained in the martial arts; your unease is misplaced.” 

Arrogant.  Sodding. Bastard.

Sherlock liked to put on the façade that he didn’t need John’s assistance, but the doctor knew well that it was the rare occasion Sherlock pursued any case without his blogger and John wasn’t naïve enough to think that it was because Sherlock was in need of his narrative abilities.  Sherlock relied on him to help him keep focused, a focus that aided him in solving cases to a degree of speed and accuracy that would not otherwise be.  He relied on him to have his gun safely tucked into his waist band, armed and ready. Yes, there was a dependence on John that Sherlock would never admit to.  Not verbally, anyway.

After exhausting his resources, a dozen queries to everyone who might have a clue as to the whereabouts of a mad English consulting detective, John sat down with a cuppa.  His tea grew cold as he pretended to read the evening newspaper, or 'pabulum for the idiot masses', as Sherlock would say.

Just as John was about to request Lestrade put out an All Points Bulletin, much to his relief, his mobile pinged.  He nearly dropped it in his haste to answer.

**_Please come.  If convenient._ **

_Where have you been you stupid git?! I’ve been texting all day.  A simple ‘hello’ would have been the proper thing to do._

Jesus.

Despite his anger, John couldn’t help but tap out, _Alright?._  Something could be wrong.  After all, as inconsiderate as Sherlock could be it still wasn’t like him to be unresponsive for so long. 

**_I’ve been…tied up._ **

Tied up.  Ha.  Probably some euphemism for running hair-brained after the source of a rare strain of Asian tobacco.  While intriguing to Sherlock, the importance of it would be incomprehensible to the rest of mankind. 

Ultimately, though, his relief that Sherlock was safe overrode his anger, his focus shifting to his need be where Sherlock was.

_Ok.  Where am I to meet you then?_

**_I’m at the old Slattery mansion in Camden._ **

The Slattery mansion?  Wasn’t that the dilapidated old house that had been slated for razing, but because of council fights it still stood, converted to an ‘underground’ sex club?  What in the world would Sherlock be doing there?

John grabbed his jacket and ran out the door.  Sherlock at a sex club?  _This_ he had to see.

\--------------------------

Something wasn’t right.  Darkness was overtaking the day and even though the activities that often took place at the mansion were intended to go unnoticed, he still thought he should be able to see light coming from _somewhere._   John double-checked his text for the location…he was in the right place.

Taking the precaution of pulling his gun out, he took the safety off before he opened the door, a creek emanating from it as if it thought it was a movie extra.  Walking into the foyer, he quickly scanned the area, his gun drawn, finger on the trigger. The place appeared to be empty and as hard as he listened, he didn’t hear any telltale signs of even one occupant.

“John?”  A rumbling voice came down from upstairs, a voice that John would know anywhere. 

“Yeh, it’s me,” John called up the stairs.

“Come up here.”  After a brief pause there was one more word John heard that he at first didn’t understand and it wasn’t because it was offered at a fraction of the initial volume, now at almost a whisper that was able to carry through the empty rooms.

“…please”

Please?! 

“Why don’t you just come down?”

“As I said, I’m tied up.”

“Anyone else here?”

“No, everyone is gone, including the police.  They took all the miscreants with them.”

Now John was really puzzled.  If the police had come and gone, why was Sherlock still here?  And why wouldn’t he come down to meet him?”

With an exasperated sigh, John ascended the stairs.  The massive dick always got his way.

When John walked into the room Sherlock’s voice had been coming from, he was wholly unprepared for the sight before him.  When Sherlock had said he was ‘tied up’, it had never occurred to John that he had been literal.

His mouth fell open, for before him was a certain flatmate, bare of everything but his scarf wrapped around his eyes, a deep purple pair of pants... 

…and a pair of handcuffs on his wrists. His mobile sat on the floor where it had dropped after he had finished texting; Sherlock was the only person John knew who could text without looking. 

“And what do we have here?”  John asked, delighted with the fact that while Sherlock was not in danger, he was clearly uncomfortable.  It wasn’t often someone got the best of Sherlock Holmes.

“If you _must_ know,” Sherlock said with a haughtiness that was laughable under the circumstances, “I infiltrated the club in pursuit of drug smuggler that has, shall we say, particular tastes.  Dimmock and his men were here and instead of letting me go, they left me here.  Like this.”  Sherlock raised his chin, displaying his best ‘miffed’ look despite his inability to adequately roll his eyes. 

“And just why did they leave you here?”  John challenged Sherlock, knowing there was more to the story; Scotland Yard would not be so irresponsible as to leave a helpless man in a deserted home just on a whim.  “ _What_ did you do, Sherlock?”

After a long pause, Sherlock said, “Well, I may have made references to a certain family member of Dimmock’s who was arrested last year, implying that there should be laws not only against theft but also against stupidity…”

“What else, Sherlock?”  John folded his arms, patiently waiting for the rest of it.

“…and that apples don’t often fall far from the tree.”

A rather mild affront given the catalogue of insults Sherlock kept on the tip of his tongue for use when peeved, but one didn’t go taunting the police when one was at a significant disadvantage. 

“And so they just left you.”  John’s chuckle earned him a glare.  Or would have, would he have been able to see Sherlock’s eyes.

“The key is on the dresser.  Now uncuff me!”  Sherlock stood up from the bed he had been sitting on and turned around to give John easier access to let him loose.

While talking with Sherlock, looking at his flatmate who was _this close_ to being in his birthday suit, a cavalcade of memories had been pressing against John’s brain, daring him to confront them~

“Why would we be needing two rooms?”

“I’m not gay.”

“We’re not actually a couple.”

“Sherlock’s not my boyfriend.”

No. Nope.  Definitely not gay.  The words were true.  They had to be. 

Didn’t they?

But then why was his cock starting to push against his jeans? Why was his pulse starting to race?  And why couldn’t he tear his eyes away from an arse that by any standards would be considered ‘generous’?

Jesus.

How many times had he woken up in the morning, his limp cock in his hand, come on his body and sheets that had grown cool and sticky?

When had he started dreaming about Sherlock? 

He didn’t know for sure.  All he knew was that for months now, more than half the time when he woke up he was either post-orgasm or his rock hard cock was accompanied by a need for his flatmate that affected every part of his body. 

Dear Fucking Christ.  Gay or not, it didn’t matter. He wanted, he _needed_ Sherlock.

It wasn’t the cases that gave him his adrenaline rushes, it was the man. 

Sherlock.

His epiphany was interrupted by, “Well!  What are you waiting for?  _Uncuff_ me.”

John coughed.  “Uh, Sherlock.”

“What?”  Sherlock asked brusquely.  He really was tired of this, not to mention the fact that he was getting cold.

John made a hasty decision to take the risk.  If he asked and was denied, so be it, he could live with it.  But he never even tried?  Well that would torment him forever.

“I’ll uncuff you if you give me a kiss first.”

Sherlock’s fidgeting stopped, his head jerked towards John in question.  “You want me to _kiss_ you?” He asked in disbelief.  Not in way that indicated that it was the most repellent thing he had ever heard, but in a tone that said he was genuinely puzzled.  Where had _that_ come from?

John squared his shoulders and stood tall; he would need some courage for this one.  The prospect of kissing Sherlock was one of the scariest, and one of the most thrilling, circumstances he had ever encountered.  And he had invaded Afghanistan.

“Yes,” he said gently, “kiss you.”  Leaving the words hanging there, allowing Sherlock to fully process them as he stepped closer to the man that by all appearances was flummoxed.

After an eternity, or so it seemed, Sherlock turned to face John, finally answering, “And how would you go about it?  I mean, would it be on my mouth?”

John looked at the lips that until now he had never realized called out to him like a Siren.  Yes.  Yes, he very, very much wanted to kiss Sherlock.

“Is that a ‘yes’?  If it’s a ‘yes’ I’ll show you how.”

Moments later John could see Sherlock’s body relax into his answer as he said, simply, “Yes.” 

Without hesitancy, John took the final step to Sherlock, tilted his head up to the face that was already reaching down towards his and closed his eyes.  This might be his one and only chance to kiss Sherlock and he didn’t want any of the outside world interrupting this unbelievable moment.

At first the kiss was tentative, the lightest whisper of lips against lips.  John placing his hands flat-palmed on Sherlock’s bare chest, guiding them slowly up the cool, soft flesh, stopping only when they held Sherlock’s face.  Sherlock drawing a deep breath in as he parted his lips just enough to suck on John’s lower lip, giving it the barest of nips, cocking his head to get just the right angle. 

John pulled Sherlock’s face closer to him, certain he could never be close enough.  The tip of his tongue teased Sherlock’s lips open further until he could reach inside, inside to the sanctity of the man that he knew in one way or another would someday be the death of him. 

He reached his hands to the back of Sherlock’s head, holding it, trailing soft kisses along until he reached the sensitive patch of skin just below his ear, suckling the lobe, biting just enough to make Sherlock exhale a warm breath of air into his ear.

Neither knew who groaned, perhaps it was both them, the onslaught of sensations causing both minds to blur. 

Feeling Sherlock’s scarf brush softly against his face, John remembered Sherlock was still bound.  This would not do.  Not for his man.  Reluctantly he pulled away and took the scarf from around Sherlock’s eyes.  And when he did, instead of derision and annoyance, he saw only acceptance and longing in those clear blue eyes.

“John,” Sherlock said.

“Yes?”

“Would you get the key and set my hands free.”  Gone was the demanding voice, replaced by a gentle appeal.

Despite the reasonableness of the request, the echo of what he himself thought he should do, John was crestfallen.  He didn’t want this moment to end, did not want to think that he might never again have the bliss of kissing Sherlock.

His sentiment must have been clearly evident on his face, for when he freed Sherlock’s hands, rubbing them to invigorate their circulation, and after a brief, intimate brush of fingers, they cupped John’s face.  “There will be more of this; there are better places and better ways to go about it,” he was reassured in a voice tinged with desire.

As Sherlock finished dressing, wrapping his scarf around his neck he smiled at John.

“Be sure to put those in your pocket,” he said, nodding at the cuffs and key in John’s hand.  I think we will be needing those again.”

John returned the smile and tucked them, clanking lightly, into his jacket pocket.  Yes, they would be needing them again soon.  Very soon, indeed. 


	6. Golden Slumbers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has started talking in his sleep, leading John and Sherlock to discover interesting things about their relationship.

It was one o’clock in the afternoon and a certain consulting detective had not yet managed to get himself properly dressed.  Clothed in his favourite blue silk pyjamas and a red and blue tartan robe, his long body made the most of the sofa.  A magazine perched on his chest and his hands clasped together on his stomach, his face was softened in a way that was never evident when he was awake.

If anyone ever had the curiosity to know how often Sherlock Holmes slept, and why anyone want to know that piece of trivia, who knows, but if they did, the answer would be ‘rarely’.

When he did fall asleep, it was just as likely to be one place as any other...  in the cab on the way home from a crime scene, in the soft, black, leather office chair in the morgue, at Mycroft’s dining room table.  Or, the time he’d had to take the Tube because, well, he was carrying the bloody harpoon and the cabs wouldn’t take him.

It seemed Sherlock could sleep anywhere his body stopped moving except in his own bed.  At 221b he could be found sleeping at the kitchen table or his desk.  Astoundingly, one time John even found him taking a catnap on the toilet, his head looking painfully uncomfortable as it rested on the nearby sink.  But that was after having been on a case for three straight days without sleep, so John hadn’t had the heart to wake him.  Fortunately, for John’s sanity, Sherlock had not yet been known to fall asleep in the tub (drowning would come under the ‘bit not good’ category) and could most often be found recharging himself on the sofa.

This is how it came to John’s attention that Sherlock had started to talk in his sleep.  When it first started John thought his flatmate was just thinking out loud. 

“Occupational exposure to formaldehyde by inhalation is mainly from three types of sources: [thermal](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thermal_decomposition) or [chemical decomposition](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chemical_decomposition) of formaldehyde-based resins, formaldehyde emission from [aqueous](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aqueous) solutions (for example, embalming fluids), and th…” the deep voice droned.  The recitation of facts not the least bit interesting to John, he tried to ignore what he heard.  But so well-conditioned was he to Sherlock bouncing ideas off of him, he couldn’t help but respond.

“What, then?”  John asked, not looking up from where he worked on his blog.  Getting no response, he decided that this particular time Sherlock must not think it worthwhile to engage John in the conversation.  After all, as illuminating as John could sometimes be, it wasn’t always worth Sherlock’s effort to solicit his help.

Quickly forgetting what Sherlock was talking about, John’s fingers continued tapping on his laptop as he slowly churned out his latest blog entry, ‘The Wounded Knight’.

Days went by as Sherlock conducted his one-sided conversations.

Unbeknownst to John, he heard just as much about Sherlock’s cases and observations – ‘the murder weapon we are looking for is a 6.35 centimeter serrated Smith and Wesson knife’; ‘the sack boy at Tesco was kidnapped at age 5 and never returned to his parents’- while he was asleep as when he was awake.  Not once did Sherlock ask for John’s input, so John was just as content to go about his own business, relegating Sherlock’s mutterings to background noise. 

One day, after weeks of this new, yet not unwelcome, routine, John came to the startling realization that Sherlock had been talking in his sleep, for the words he heard nearly caused him apoplexy. 

“I love you.  Madly.  Deeply.  Please do me the honour of becoming mine for the rest of my life.”  Those were the words that escaped Sherlock’s mouth.

‘Love’?!  ‘Please’?!’  John’s head whipped up to look at his flatmate; he didn’t know Sherlock even _knew_ those words, let alone possessed the ability to articulate them.  And not only did Sherlock say the words, but they were said in a tone that John had never thought Sherlock could even imitate.  They actually sounded… _endearing._

About to ask Sherlock what the _hell_  he was talking about, John heard a subtle snore. 

Wait.  What?  Sherlock’s asleep?  Going over to where Sherlock was laid out on the sofa, John got a closer look at him.  Saw the fluttering eyelids, heard another faint snore from the sleeping man. 

John peered intently at him, puzzled.  What had Sherlock been talking about then?  _Who_ had he been talking to?  Most of the things Sherlock had been talking about these days had been subjects John was quite familiar with- cases, neighbors. 

But this?!  Sherlock didn’t have a lover.  Or did he?  As far as John knew there were no romantic interests in the detective’s life, let alone a prospective _marriage partner_.

But come to think of it, the detective _had_  often left in the evening lately, generally while John was working his current evening rotation at the A&E.  Maybe Sherlock _did_ have a lover, John thought; it had never occurred to him to even ask.  It had never occurred to him Sherlock might be interested in having a partner, after all, the first night they’d had dinner at Angelo’s Sherlock had said it ‘wasn’t his area’.   

His curiosity peaked, John moved his chair and laptop to the side of the table closest to Sherlock so that now when he talked, John could be sure to hear him.

He didn’t have to wait long, for the next day he heard, ‘Come on honeykins, just one little kiss for your pookie bear?”

WTF?! 

John couldn’t help it, he went over to Sherlock for a second time in two days and crouched over him, trying to somehow divine if these declarations were manifestations of a dream or maybe they were words he had said to someone in his waking moments.  Or wanted to. 

Watching, waiting, for more words to clear the mystery, John took the opportunity to look, really look at Sherlock’s face.  The smooth, pale skin, the dark lashes that stood out against it. The cheekbones that belonged to only the finest of Britons.  The pronounced lips that, god forbid, seemed to have ‘kiss me’ written across them. 

Kiss me.

Sherlock’s face was softer in sleep than when awake.  This was a face that Sherlock’s lover would have found easy to fall in love with, John observed.

Kiss me.

God help him, but making sure that he still heard a soft snore, John brushed his thumb along the plump bottom lip.  A warmth ran through him, the eroticism and moistness of that lip so inviting.

Kiss me.

John leaned down and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s, lightly so as not to wake him.  ‘What the fuck am I doing,’ he thought to himself, but he couldn’t stop.  The lips below him parted slightly and he dipped his tongue in between them, just a little.  A little bit wouldn’t hurt; there was nothing more he needed right then than to taste Sherlock Holmes.  He closed his eyes, savoring every nanosecond of the experience, knowing he would never again have a chance like this one.

As Sherlock’s lips began to move against his, John’s eyes flew open.  Staring back at him were a pair of vibrant blue ones. Neither surprised or accusing, they simply watched John, waiting to see what he would do next.    

John rocked back on his heels and wiped his mouth, unable to look at Sherlock.  What in the hell was his flatmate going to think _now._

“Jesus, Sherlock, I’m sorry.  You were talking in your sleep and I wanted to hear what you were saying…”  The words rushed out of John’s mouth in his embarrassment.  Christ, now he’d probably have to move out; he would never be able to look Sherlock in the face again. 

“What was I saying?” Sherlock asked, nothing in his tone saying ‘my flatmate just kissed me and I want to sever my own lips from my body.’  “I didn’t know I had somniloquy, though I shouldn’t be surprised.  Mycroft talked in his sleep when we were children and it runs in families.  So now, what was I saying?  I want to know the level of concern I should have regarding this irregularity.” 

John turned his head away to further distance himself from any scorn Sherlock might have for his actions.

“You were telling someone you loved them and that you wanted to marry them.  You called them ‘honeykins’.” 

Sounding disappointed, Sherlock said, “Oh.  Is that all.”  After all, he could have hoped for something less, well, common.

John couldn’t help but finally look at Sherlock.  “Is that all?!  You are getting engaged to be married, the biggest event of your life, and I didn’t know?!  I mean, not that it’s not fine, but I would have thought you would have told me.  After all, I thought at this point we considered ourselves pretty good friends.  Friends tell friends these things.”

An amused looked settled on Sherlock’s face.  “Are you jealous, John?”

“NO, I’m not jealous, like I said, I just would have thought…”

Sherlock interrupted him.  “Well, if you must know, I’ve been working on a case.  I’ve been wooing a young cook to gain access to a suspect’s house and I’ve been practicing what to say since it doesn’t come naturally to me.  Clearly I’ve been working it out in my sleep.”  The amusement on Sherlock’s face didn’t diminish as he watched John’s fluster prevent him from producing a coherent response.

“So you aren’t…  You didn’t…  So you aren’t in love then.”  John finally managed to say.

“No, I didn’t and I am not.”  Sherlock’s eyes gentled as he watched John process this, watched his friend’s discomfort fade.   

Sherlock’s eyes settled on John’s lips as his hand reached for the doctor’s chin. Cocking an eyebrow, he said, “It doesn’t mean I wouldn’t like to practice…other things,” his meaning clear to even the least brilliant person in the room. 

“But I thought, I mean, I didn’t think you were interested in those things?”  John’s eyes were drawn back to Sherlock’s mouth.  Dear mother of god, what he wouldn’t give to feel it against him again.

As Sherlock brought his lips to John’s, he murmured, “And I thought you said you weren’t gay…”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To those of you reading In My Life~ not to worry, I'll be right back on it. I needed some fluff after the last chapter I posted!


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